The Lady in White
by aBeautifulWorld
Summary: Shadows creep in her mind, a darkness lies in her soul. The Lady in White should have never returned home.


**Prologue**

Making her way across the room, Ib sat in front of the dressing table, inspecting her dishevelled reflection. She stroked her fair skin upwards, scrutinising the lines and creases that were barely hidden. Age had given her a more classical beauty, but age had definitely set itself onto her. She sighed and twirled the ends of her hair. Soft, silky locks swiftly untangled from her fingers. A few wet strands stuck to her skin and she frowned, displeased by the outcome. Picking up the hairbrush, she let out a heavy breath and looked in the mirror.

Ib stared at herself. Her eyes widened at the open bedroom door.

"Mama!"

She jumped.

She screamed.

She threw the hairbrush against the mirror.

Glass shattered, raining down on the dressing table. The laughing child was suddenly paralysed by the sound, face still hidden by the heavy mannequin head. The little girl stepped back when a hand roughly grabbed her arm, the other lifting the eerie porcelain face off her. She gasped, struggling to get away.

Ib threw the hollow mannequin head to the floor. It smashed into several pieces.

"Ma... Mama?"

The tears wouldn't stop running. Her breath came erratically. Ib walked in a daze towards the broken porcelain. She took one large piece shakily before smashing it to the marble floor, again and again and again. Her bloody hands didn't register. Her daughter's screaming voice didn't register. She did not stop until most of them were fragments.

"Ib!"

She froze.

"What the hell, Ib?"

She grinded her teeth and glowered towards the direction of the voice. Her daughter was crying, held by her father's strong arms. Anger bubbled through her once again and she stood, trembling, barely holding on to her sanity, looking straight into her husband's eyes. She pointed a bloody finger towards him.

"Don't you dare, don't you ever _dare_ bring home any more of those _things_ ever again. Do you understand me? Don't!"

"You went completely ballistic. You even scared poor Mary."

Her husband's words didn't reach her. She looked back to the broken mirror, staring at her reflection from whatever remaining shards of glass were left. She looked demented, crimson hands matched crimson eyes. Her long dark hair was matted and twisted. Her bathrobe was stained red. Her skin was ghostly white, her eyes bloodshot.

"Ibbi—"

"Stop."

"Ib."

"Stop it. Go away." Her voice cracked. Her hands clenched into loose fists. She looked down, unable to face him, her surge of strength gone.

"Ib, talk to me. What's wrong?" She stared at her throbbing hands, outlined vibrantly by the bright scarlet ribbons dripping onto the floor. The metallic tang in the air made her sick, bile rising to her throat. She gagged, rushing to the bathroom, barely making it in time before the contents of her stomach emptied itself. She retched until all she could taste was acid.

"You could have given Mary bruises." Gentle hands swept her hair back, giving her a brief cooling relief. Ib picked at the strands of hair sticking to her mouth, taking care not to breathe while her bloody hands were still close to her face. She spotted her daughter by the door, eyes downcast and wet. "You've upset her."

Her husband rubbed circles on her back, yet another small comfort to the agitated woman. Tears rolled down her face once more at her destructive actions. Ib didn't resist her husband's reassuring embrace, crying softly onto his shoulder. He patted her mouth and cheeks dry with the nearby tissues.

"Won't you tell me what's wrong?" She gave another shuddering sob, shaking her head at the request. He gave her a small kiss on the forehead, reminding her of the way another man used to hold her gently. She doesn't deserve him, he doesn't deserve her empty shell, and she wouldn't always have the energy to hold onto her façade.

"Just promise me you won't make our house a museum." Ib could barely recognise her own hoarse voice, faint and completely exhausted. "Please. No more statues, or mannequins, or paintings."

"Okay." She looked up to his dark brown eyes, dark brown hair done in a professional style, his business suit still neatly pressed after a long day and tie done in such a tidy manner. "Okay fine, whatever you want, dear."

He tries but he could never compare.

So different. So very different.

Even after six years, she would lament on their differences, on a fairytale dream gone so terribly wrong.

He got up to exchange her bathrobe, helping her into the clean garment without a word or comment about her current form. He used a wet bath towel to wipe away the blood on her hands, on her face, instructed the maid to tend to her cuts with bandages and plasters. He carried her bridal style to their bed, reminiscent of their wedding night, no such event occurring since then.

He lay her down on the sheets tenderly, sitting down next to her with a heavy sigh. Ib closed her eyes, trying to avoid the question he constantly plagued her with. She knew he would be gazing softly, sadly at her. She hated wounding him like this. "Won't you tell me what happened?"

But she hated wounding herself more.

"You wouldn't understand," she breathed softly, "You weren't there."

* * *

**AN:** I like Dark!Ib, I really do. Once upon a time, I had the idea of a murder mystery romance story for Ib… but it never saw the light of day. However, I liked the prologue I had already written, so I polished it up and left just enough answers to be a one-shot, but also enough intrigue if I do pick this story back up one day. What do you think? Apologies for lack of updating on my other stories recently *cough* TMB *cough*, but that will also change soon enough. Take care x


End file.
